how the mundane things in life, can become the greatest torture.
I'm just trying to focus here; instead, this is all I get.
Mal à la tête
October 11, 2011
It's days like these
where my mind is driven scraping circles
round and round my thoughts,
carving unprocessed words
into the wooden beams of railroad tracks.
It's every time I get close to the finish,
close to the cut throat wire,
that I shy away,
just moments from being lost into the abyss,
just moments from stepping into
And then I back away,
run as fucking far as I can.
Because I don't really want to be there,
I want to be far, far away,
where's its safe and cold,
dark and empty,
just me and my thoughts, running along.
I make a mistake every damned time,
and backtracking is like the painful return
through a sea of leeches and tacks,
the silent trek through needle-tree forests and
poisonous nighttime fog,
and it's not just that,
but the night had always been my friend before.
And now I find myself lost,
between a desert full of people
and a lush forest, full of hurt
and self intention.
A purposeful retort,
an intentional torture,
where it's just me and the seasons,
swinging me along,
to the critical moment
of breath-stopped, heart shot,
dilation till elation
beauty in the momentary,
fear in the forever of unseen-ly compelling
ages and lapses stuck between
the rapture of
breath stopped, heart shot.
I already told you,
I'll meet you when I get there.